A Muddy Trail
by ramblingonandon
Summary: They were born in different countries, in opposite circumstances. Their lives hold nothing in common; at least they don't think so. But drop by drop they're linked and through the mire they find their way to each other.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This was started way back for the writing challenge with the prompt as 'Mud' but I never got around finishing it. [You'll see, the idea became a bigger project for the time I had] The deadline for that is months past but I decided to complete it just to get back into writing. **

**Disclaimer:**** Don't own anything recognizable here nor making any money. **

**This is a mix of the BBC show, Dumas' book, some historical information and my own imagination. There won't be any accuracy either way.**

**I've typed out the entire story so updates might be faster. **

**While I did put Romance as genre for this one I'm not really sure it fulfils that, but that's what's it's supposed to be from the writing end so…. **

**Happy reading! **

* * *

_**Stone by stone we're tumbling**_

_**Inch by inch it's humbling**_

_**Fooled by the world untangling,**_

_**You're leaving me whole again…**_

_** \- Kris Orlowski [stone by stone] **_

* * *

The rain is light in Valladolid.

A thin web in the air that prickles over her face and soaks her hair until all the pins in the world cannot hold it in place. The edges of her dress are heavy, dragging against the earth as her dainty slippers sink into the slush. It is one of the few puddles in the immaculately kept courtyard and she is fascinated. Gathering the drenched folds of her gown she jumps, feels the pop as she lifts and the squelch as she sinks and she giggles.

"Ana María Mauricia!"

The giggle gets stuck in her throat.

"Good heavens child! Your dress; your shoes; it's on your face!" the governess clutches her arm and Ana winces, eyes widening at the horror she sees in the adult who pulls her away and hastily wipes at the mud stuck to her face.

"Your Grace I beg your forgiveness, please I shouldn't have – there, there, don't cry."

And it is then that she realizes that the wetness on her face isn't just the rain. Her governess pulls her into her arms and up. The handkerchief doesn't stop wiping at her face and she sees it getting darker with each try to clean her skin.

"It's all over you. And in your hair too," her governess murmurs as they make it to the palace doors, "Your Grace you must not go out like this alone, especially not in the storm. It is not befitting a princess. Oh it's clinging to everything!"

Ana buries her face in the plump shoulder and refuses to show how the tugging at her hair hurts when the handkerchief shifts to clean there; she is a princess after all. When she's set down in her room she shivers, rubs at her arms that are streaked with mud too and she rubs harder. The horrid thing wouldn't let go and her governess tisks as she cleans her with a warm damp cloth.

"See your grace?" she nods towards the dark smudge on the cloth, "it never truly goes away,"

Ana nods.

Lets herself be cleaned and dressed and once she is deemed to be looking like a princess again she goes to sit in the window seat. Her governess gathers the dirty clothes and stokes the fire. The rain falls harder and faster outside and Ana dares not open the window. Through the blurry glass she watches the grass grow darker, watches more puddles appear in the courtyard. High in her tower room Ana watches the earth get soaked through and shivers.

She is four years old.

* * *

It's pouring in Paris.

Fat raindrops smack onto his head as he wipes at his eyes; clears away his hair clinging to his face and the rivulets that run down to his chin and into his collar. His clothes stick to his skin and he dodges the people scurrying for cover. The sky rumbles and his boots slap the wet cobblestone as he makes it down the street.

He spots it ahead, in that patch of the street where the cobbles are missing.

And taking a running leap he lands with a splash in the mud.

Someone shrieks, someone yells, words rise in the air only to be drowned out by the clap of thunder. Laughing he stomps once, twice, the mud splatters everywhere as someone grabs him by the ear.

"Ow! Maman! Ow!"

"I'm sorry did you say something?" she turns to him with a glare, clutches the back of his collar and pulls him out of the puddle, "I can't hear you over the storm,"

"I was just –"

"You'll catch your death in this cold,"

"It was only for a minute –"

"Not a word from you Rene," she pulls him close to her side and rubs a hand down his arm, "your lips are turning blue,"

She drags him along with a warm hand at the back of his neck. He hangs his head; feels his insides twist at the worry in her dark eyes. They rush to their house in silence and it is not until he is somewhat dry and wrapped in covers around the two shirts that his Maman had pulled over his head that he finally murmurs a small apology.

"Corazón mío, I just don't want you to get sick," she drops another towel on his head and rubs vigorously.

He wriggles until he can peek out from under the damp towel, half a grin already in place.

"Don't worry Maman I'm strong," he says.

And cupping his face between her hands his mother drops a kiss to his brow.

"That you are," she smiles and smooths back his dark curls, "but how about you wait for the summer showers and watch the winter storms from the window?"

"With honey milk?" he asks; because he is Rene and he cannot resist pushing his luck.

With a blank look his Maman points towards the window but he catches her smile as she turns away. Honeyed milk would follow he knows and dragging the chair close to the windowsill he throws open its doors. The roar of the rain echoes in the house as he is sprayed with rainwater again. Ignoring the wet trails down his face he looks up at the sky over the rooftops, watches the clouds as they grumble and growl.

He is five years old.

* * *

_Once upon a time the Sky caught sight of the Earth. _

_And the Earth? _

_It stared back._

* * *

She keeps near the walls, secure in the illusion of melting into their visage if she moves pressed into them; too young yet to accept that closing her eyes does not make her invisible to danger. The lights flicker and the shadows dance as she clutches the papers and makes her way down to the main floor of the castle. She sneaks out into the grounds through the window and ducks away from the patrolling guards.

It isn't until she is by the tree line skirting the royal courtyards that she slows; steps into the shadows until the trees behind her hide the courtyard beyond and stops only then. Looks down at the pages she had torn from their bindings.

They are mostly sketches and not even that good if she was honest with herself. But they were her thoughts, her words and drawings that she had been collecting for quite some time now.

But at seven she is almost a lady her mother had reminded her and a lady wouldn't leave her thoughts exposed to be found by unfriendly eyes. She is fortunate that it was her mother who discovered her habit, or who knows how it could have been used by someone else.

"Burn them my love," her mother had said, "do not let them be twisted into splashes of dirt for your enemies to fling at you,"

In the pale shreds of the moonlight reaching her she gazes down at the half sketched horses, outlines of the corridor outside her room, the details from the vase that her mother loved and unfinished thoughts that only made sense to her. She couldn't burn them, something twisted in her at the thought of throwing these pages into the flames.

Ana rips them up.

One over the other and she tears them up again and again until she can't for the thickness.

Dropping the pile of crumpled pieces she reaches for one of the many sticks littering the ground and then she digs. The ground is damp here, soft and crumbly and gives easily. Allows her to make room for the thoughts she seeks to bury and soon there is a hole that she deems suitable enough.

Placing every last piece of the papers into the ground she covers them again with the dirt. Stares at her grimy hands and she knows that the cool press to her knees would be leaving stains on her nightgown. Keeping her hands away from the rest of her clothes she rises to her feet and looks down at the patch of turned earth. Soon it would be like the rest of the forest floor, soon there will be no trace of her presence here and as she turns away, Ana knows that once she washes the dirt from her person there will be no sign left of this moment.

But she will know.

And that is enough.

* * *

He pushes away from the wall and launches at the nearest sneering young man; fist connecting with a jaw even as he grabs the neck and uses all his weight to bring the head down to his level for another blow. Hits land on him from all around but he doesn't feel them, doesn't acknowledge them, _doesn't bloody care because how dare they – how dare they use such words for his mother –_

A near animalistic snarl escapes him as the arm around his waist and the hand in his hair finally yank him away from the target of his rage.

He kicks out; clawing at the lightly bearded face nearest him even as he bites into the hand that is holding the front of his collar.

Profanities fill the air as he is dropped and someone lands a kick to his belly pushing the breath out of him. Gasping he curls forward slightly before he slams a fist in the nearest leg. They are over twice his age as well as his size but that is nothing compared to the boiling rage in his scrawny eight year old body and Rene springs up to land blows to the leader of this four man group.

He lands onto his back a few minutes later.

"Scrappy little mutt aren't you?" the one cradling his bitten hand kicks at his leg and Rene chokes back a scream.

A bloodied face looms in his hazy vision.

"Finally accepted your place then?" it demands and he would snap back a reply if he had the breath, if his mind would grasp his thoughts.

Someone spits near his head.

"–tter filth –"

" –ver forget that –"

There is a fist in his hair and the stink of alcohol in the words growled at his face.

" –nd that's your place mutt. You're filth just like your mother,"

His head hits the ground again and there are stars before his eyes. Bright and tiny and flashing and so close that he feels he could touch them if only he could raise an arm. Somewhere he can hear a voice, pitched high in fear and vaguely he realizes it is Pauline.

Rene blinks slowly.

The blur in his sight stays.

But so do the stars, they are never this bright in the fading night but they are in that moment. Blazing like distant fires and cold gems, beckoning him to reach out, to hold on and as Pauline lifts his head to break into his view, Rene vows to himself to never be in this position again.

Because this, this is not enough.

* * *

_The Sky held promises._

_The Earth kept secrets._

_Between them a heavy silence._

* * *

She stares at the clay figurines left to dry at the windowsill.

Margret wriggles in her lap and asks again for their mother and she wants to tell that she needs her too. Instead she shushes the child and looks out the darkened window, listens for the hushed breeze leaden with the distant smell of wet soil and holds on to her baby sister. Reminds herself that her sister is only a year old so she couldn't understand; that the little ones gathered at her feet couldn't either and glances to her brother sitting on the chair next to her. Philippe holds her hand, he is scared and she wants to show that she is too. But she smiles at him, tries to ease the downwards pull at the corners of boy's lips.

The door opens. It is not their governess, but father who steps through.

She stands and he crouches, his shoulders stoop his head dips.

She raises her chin, pulls her back straight.

"Ana, my child, my heart," big hands grasp both hers, "your mother, you dear mother is gone,"

And somehow she has seen it coming from the moment he had stood in the doorway; yet it blows her away, the words drag her away, weightless, breathless, adrift. There is the sound of sniffles and sobs and the hand clenching hers is painful; but above it all there comes the unmistakable cry of a newborn.

"You have a new brother," his father is saying.

The words echo out to her.

"He needs you Ana," the voice is tired, "your siblings need you. They will look to you now for strength and comfort, you must be brave for them my child."

She nods.

Lets Margret clutch at her leg and bends to gather the others with her free hand, Philippe still holds the other. The day that dawned to mark her birth ends with the night her mother breathes her last. At ten years old Ana holds onto the young lives in her grasp, wet faces and sticky fingers, and she promises herself to mould them as best as she can.

* * *

He glances at the clay pots lining the wall.

Looks away before the man in front of him can follow his gaze and catch the shadow rustling behind them. Hands curled into fists at his sides he glares up at his fuming sire.

"Who're you sending it to then?" growls d'Herblay, "where's my grain disappearing to?"

It's likely feeding their recently crippled grounds-man's family but he isn't sure, and he isn't going to tell the man even if he has seen all three of the girls smuggling the small parcels to the house staff. They call him the d'Herblay bastard here but he isn't that sort of a bastard.

"Are you planning to send it to your Maman?" the man collars him, the stench of grapes and honey blows into his face, "storing it up somewhere are you?"

The shake that follows makes his teeth clang, makes him hold on to the very hands holding him up from the floor. His surprised knees almost miss taking his weight when he is suddenly released, it's the only reason the fist misses his eye and splits his lip instead. There's a muffled gasp from behind the pots as he falls and his eyes narrow in a warning, telling the girl there to stay put.

"Next time I catch you anywhere near my stores you'll find the last thrashing pale in comparison," d'Herblay walks out with that.

He can still hear the man snapping at the new grounds-man somewhere close by as he moves to where Maria is hiding. Nearly topples back when his half-sister throws herself at him and holds on.

"I'm sorry Rene, I'm sorry,"

"Hush, I know you girls meant well, it's alright,"

The little one leaves wet splotches on his shirt.

"We thought – we wanted –"

"Let's get out of here first," he tells her.

She turns and trips and down goes two clay pots in a thick crash. Grabbing the seven year old by her arm he hauls her up to the window and turns to face d'Herblay just as she jumps out. The man has his belt out already. But it's not like it hadn't left imprints on him before he tells himself, reminds himself of the three little girls who had stopped turning up too bruised ever since d'Herblay brought him here. At eleven years old Rene holds onto the young lives in his grasp, hardened faces and brittle bones and he promises himself to not let them shatter from the blows he takes on.

* * *

_The Sky refused to fall._

_The Earth refused to break._

_Because the world has to go on. _

* * *

The days have been long.

At fourteen years old she's a bride, a wife, a queen; she feels no different than from when she was not. The horses trudge along the mud splattered road, their procession having lost its pomp and colours somewhere back the way they had come. She had seen the other bride, the other queen, the other wife on that small island as the two of them had switched families, countries, loyalties.

Louis dozes on the seat across from her.

She peeks out from the carriage window and stretches her legs under the long gown, wonders if her husband would let her ride a horse for a change. But she refrains from asking, from waking him up if only for conversation. His Majesty has made clear how he feels about such interruptions. She sits back with half a smile at the thought of that sluggish indignation she had faced from Louis that reminded her of a very young Philippe urged awake after his noon slumbers.

The jolt comes as a surprise.

She holds on to the edge of her seat as the carriage nearly tips back, the wheels lurch in the air, the world tilts and smashes and drags. There are yells and whines and Louis is screaming, clinging to the wooden bar as mud splashes them from where the door should be in the wall of the carriage that is now their floor. And then the carriage flips, tumbles, her head smacks onto something hard and she trembles as water laps at her ankles.

Louis is screaming and screeching.

"Your Majesty –"

He's tangled in the thick drapes he had been lying on and clawing at what remains of his seat.

"Majesty –" the carriage is slipping, the water rising.

Louis sobs; loud and wet.

There are hollers in the distance and she can see the men through the rips in the carriage wall. She tries to move towards that direction even as the ache in her head makes the world spin under her. Catching her husband by the back of his shirt she gives him a shake; her panic almost softening at the whimper that gets her.

"We need to move," she says, "we're on a slope, a river bank," she pushes back the shiver in her voice and the carriage slides down around them a little a more, "we need to move up,"

Urging Louis ahead of her she follows until the king is almost out of the nearly crushed carriage. The men on the lip of the incline lower down to them with ropes around their waists. She watches them come nearer and struggles to tear at her dress that is stuck on something inside the slipping wreck.

They reach Louis, secure him in their arms.

King before Queen, she knows.

He doesn't look back at her; doesn't glance back even as she gasps when the carriage drags her further down.

"Your Majesty –" she stretches out with a hand even as she pulls at her dress from the other, "I'm stuck, and it's not –"

In the arms of his soldier he looks to her but doesn't reach out. Her stretched arm falls, claws at the mud as the carriage collapses and sweeps out into the river, taking her along, down and away as she whirls and kicks and sputters. The water pulls on her hard and fast. There is no sense of up or down, there is no space to breathe; there is nothing for her to stand on.

Suddenly there is grip coiled around her waist, a solid presence at her back.

Ana coughs and looks up, the back of her head smacking his face.

Blue eyes meet brown.

* * *

The nights have been too short.

At fifteen years old he's ready to be a bridegroom, a husband, a father; for the first time in years he feels anticipation, for the first time in his life he is in love. His beautiful Isabelle had calmed him like no one else had ever before; has him making plans to put away money for a home in his future. He will work, he will earn and he will find his place in Paris away from his sire and closer to his mother. In just few more years he would have a place and a family to call his own.

Leaning over the bridge he watches the swollen river raging far below. The small dagger he had forged at the local blacksmith's hangs from between his fingers as he takes a break on the way back to the mansion.

He sees the wreck first; long strips of cloth and bits of wood caught in the water current and amongst them someone struggling. Pulling off his belt he wedges the hilt of his dagger through the metal of the belt loop, pulls on it once to make sure it's stuck tight and jumps into the water.

She's slim in his grasp but struggling like a spooked mare, powerful kicks and hard elbows that leave bruises everywhere.

"I've got you," he tells her, "stop, stop,"

She sputters and coughs and rams her head into his face.

"I'm trying to help," he says, looks away at the floating drapery and snatches it up, "we'll cut diagonal across the stream alright?" he turns to the girl, "You kick the water to help. Not me, the water."

He's already maneuvering them towards the nearest embankment and surprisingly the girl helps in good synch. They're as close as they'd get when he brings up the dagger, the belt and what had once been a fine piece of thick cloth; the girl ties it to the belt without a question either way.

He can't help the smile.

And looks back to the still distant shore and measures their possible reach, their speed and the angle; an act that's part instinct part learned. They have only one chance and he knows he's good at this, has never missed his mark once he's honed what came to him naturally, but he'd never done this before either.

He sets his arm, breathes in and blows out as the dagger flies from his grip.

Sticks into the tree by the river bank ahead and in the next breath he grasps the cloth that they're being washed by. But there's a give, the dagger hadn't struck hard enough and the cloth isn't tied tight enough to the belt. He glances at the girl and secures her hands on the cloth.

"Pull yourself up," he says.

He can feel the blade inching out of the tree trunk even as the girl gets a good hold and he fears that the makeshift rope will split at the knot. He nods at her once and lets go.

Between her yell and his own he tries to swim to the edge. But the water pulls him in the other direction and he swims with the flow, gathers his strength to cut through it eventually and when he does it leaves him clinging to some low branches downstream. Shivering and coughing he pulls himself up over the muddy incline, hands and knees sinking in the dirt as he crawls out of the river completely and flops down onto his front.

It's the thought of that girl that urges him to move.

Dragging himself up to his feet he stumbles and sways making his way upstream, looking to the other side of the river for any sign of that girl. He finds men, soldiers, hears them before he can see them and hastens closer to the river edge. There she is, looking up at the soldiers coming to her aid from the road above. He lets go a breath he didn't remember holding and grabs the nearest tree for support. He is caked in mud, it's making his clothes cling to his skin; it's on his face, in his hair and in the breath that he takes.

The mud streaked girl on the other side of the river turns back towards Rene.

Brown eyes meet blue.

* * *

_The Sky spread out far and wide._

_The Earth rolled out open and broad._

_And tucked in the distant horizon their first meeting, _

* * *

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

This is not her fault.

She tells him as much, cannot believe that he would accuse her of this. The queen-mother smirks from behind him and she bites back the desire to rip into her with words, pulls at the patience she's been taught as a princess and takes a calming breath.

"I assure you Your Majesty; the Duke is a friend and one seldom met at that," she says, "there is nothing untoward in our acquaintance."

"So you deny the gift that he sent you? You deny his signature and seal?" the queen-mother asks.

"I simply claim to know nothing of the reasons that you imply with the Duke's gift,"

"Don't talk to my mother like that," Louis says, "she is not at fault here,"

"And I am?" she tries her best not issue it as a challenge, tries her best not to show how much it hurts to face her husband's distrust.

"There is doubt," Louis falters, "that I ask you to clarify,"

"And I would in every way that Your Majesty wishes,"

She sees the wide blue eyes soften, feels hope as a smile twitches on the king's face and finds that hope crushed under the grip of queen-mother who clasps her husband's shoulder and pulls him back.

"We shall see. Will we not my dear?"

"Yes mother," he beams at her.

She watches them leave, presses a hand to her face because at fifteen she's a woman, a queen no less. She will not let the tears fall. She goes for a walk instead. Her ladies-in-waiting walk behind her, Inés and Laurence locked in a battle of glares behind her no doubt while her combined retinue moves divided by a border she is supposed to bridge. The breeze and overcast sky had beckoned people out into the castle grounds and at best there is wariness in the eyes that lower to her, at worst she sees disgust she cannot understand. There is contempt in the whispers after she had moved along, snide glances when they think she isn't looking.

They don't trust her she knows now, these people, the nobles and her husband. She is the Spanish queen, an outsider, sometimes enemy, possibly treacherous. Doubt stains every eye that watches and all the ears that listen, it's smeared in every courtesy and word spoken to her.

The crack of thunder heralds rain.

She quickens her pace but cannot escape the downpour.

Ana's shoes lead muddy prints up into the castle.

* * *

This is all his fault.

He should have thought it through, should have stopped; he should have considered the result. Staring at his hands he cannot believe how close he had come to happiness, to home. His fingers curl around empty air. The baby gone and his Isabelle heartbroken, suffering because he had been reckless.

He looks up as the door opens.

A man barrels out of the home and he resists stepping back in the face of his wrath.

"I told you not to come here," says the man, "I warned you."

"Monsieur please –,"

"You stubborn, arrogant bastard!" the fist to his face isn't a surprise, "I told you to stay away from my sister. I warned you. But what did you do?" the man lands another hit.

He slips on the wet ground and lands onto the vegetable patch Isabelle had tended to so carefully. Another loss, another thing destroyed by him. He squints up at the man standing over him.

"I just want to see her,"

"Haven't you done enough?" the man asks.

The kick to his side leaves him breathless, it's nothing compared to the ache in the center of his lungs ever since he found out, breathed in the ruins of his future.

"Please let me talk to her,"

"She's gone,"

Ice crawls into his veins, coils in his gut. He shakes his head and his eyes water. It cannot be, she cannot be dead as well. He tastes bile.

"Father took her away,"

Oh.

He rolls onto his front and pushes against the ground to sit up. There is no point in asking where, the man won't tell him where she'd gone, maybe the father would.

"She didn't even want to hear your name before she went," says the man, "so stop showing your face around here,"

He gets to his feet. Being sent away or left behind time and again in his short life of sixteen years and he still can't understand why it hurts so much. Can't understand what's wrong with him, why it's wrong with him. He walks past the man and dares not glance back at the house he had once been welcomed in. He walks to the low gate as he hears the main door close behind him.

Rene leaves muddy boot prints out the cobblestone path.

* * *

_The Sky darkened._

_The Earth shook._

_A new understanding mapped the world. _

* * *

It's a chance torn from her.

She sits at her desk and stares out the window, hands resting lightly on her stomach. Rain pelts against the ground beyond her sight but she watches the water drip from the window ledge, it's slow and steady trickle ceaseless and gradual. Swallowing thickly she wipes at the wet trails on her face. She had raised her siblings, yes death had claimed one but she had done her best. They loved her, she was a mother to them but she would not be to this child, her first child; taken from her before she could even hold him. She wraps her arms around herself.

Louis was angry, the people disappointed and the court indignant.

She has lost her first baby.

She has failed to provide a living, healthy heir to the throne.

Her eyes close and she searches the back of her eyelids for anger, pain, sorrow; anything to feel in the hollow ache she breathes. There is nothing but empty darkness.

The knock on the door has her sitting up.

She allows entrance to the woman she had been expecting.

Her ladies-in-waiting had been changed again; this was supposed to be the new head of her retinue. She wonders if Louis or the Cardinal or whoever else that held control of her life really did this for her benefit as they claimed or as punishment. Still she paints a smile on her face and nods at the woman's courtesy.

She stands and walks over to the open window.

"What is your name?"

"Marie, your majesty,"

She glances over her shoulder and the smile feels caked on her lips.

"When we are alone you may call me by my name," she says.

"As you wish, your –Ana,"

High up from her window she watches the earth get soaked through and shivers.

"Call me Anne," she says.

She is eighteen years old.

* * *

It's a chance offered to him.

He stares at the man and tries to read any underlying deception, any hidden motive in the slightly pinched face before him. But Treville seems honest, serious, and even a bit grateful. It's not the first time he'd helped out a soldier out of the muck of blood and dirt that is the battleground and it won't be the last. But that particular time that he had risked his life to save this particular senior officer appears to matter to said officer a lot.

Matters enough to Treville to put an effort into tracing him down and offer him a commission.

"Are you sure there's room for me in this regiment of yours?"

"You'll be the first to be commissioned so I think we can manage," Treville says.

A regiment based in Paris formed to protect the king. Away from the fire and metal and splintering wood, the air not touched by the smell of the sea and the blood spilt daily. The rain batters against the roof in a wild beat and his wounds ache; the ones from the enemy and the ones from his commanding officer, old ones and new one ones, it's a symphony all on its own. It hums along with the need for violence that had sang in his veins ever since had given up on finding Isabelle.

Lost, abandoned and adrift, courting death just to confirm that his heart still beats in his chest.

He's from the lowest of the ranks, the ones sent out to die first, the baits and scouts, dispensable. He is alive because he knows that and has learned to spot danger even when there is none. He knows there are others that are better, higher ranked and more deserving, more experienced, more learned, born lawfully noble and honourable in action. Crossing his arms he leans back in the chair, ankles crossed where he has stretched his legs out before him and he smirks at the man.

"Why me?" he asks.

Treville doesn't look away.

"Why not?" the man counters.

Chuckling he shakes his head, takes to his feet and turns away. Walking to the only window in the infirmary he throws it open, letting in the roar of the rain.

"We leave in the morning Rene,"

It's a name he hadn't used in years among those he calls his friends. He glances over his shoulder before looking out again. Ignoring the wet trails down his face he looks up at the sky over the rooftops, watches the clouds as they grumble and growl.

"Call me Aramis," he says.

He is nineteen years old.

* * *

_Day and night, spring and fall._

_Seasons shift and time flows._

_The start becomes a stranger _

* * *

They sparkle.

Bright, sharp and cold in the light from the fireplace, they mock her from where they hang in Louis' grasp. She had seen him disappointed, sad, furious but this utter contempt in his eyes leaves her breathless, wordless. The diamonds twinkle as Louis shakes the heavy necklace before her gaze.

"Is this not the gift I ordered to be made for you?" he demands.

She nods.

"Then why?" he asks, "Have I not given you all the riches that you desire?"

"You have your majesty, always."

"Then why is it not enough? Why did you betray me like this?"

And somewhere in her chest it still stings that he would think this lowly of her. She blinks as Louis rushes close, eyes narrowed and teeth clenched.

"What has he promised you?" asks her husband, "is it troops? A fleet for Spain? Wealth for her coffers? What does he offer in return for the favors you sell?"

Cold rage washes over her, swaths her in such loathing for this man that for a moment her vision whites out. Lips pursed, hands balled into fists she feels her breath stuck in her throat. She is a queen she reminds herself, she is a queen. The breath going down to her chest feels like she has swallowed a spiky stone. She looks away from the diamonds, away from the letters clutched in Louis' other hand. She looks into the blue eyes and forces her neck stiff.

"I did not sent those letters to the Duke and I did not send him that necklace,"

"I have your accomplice right here," Louis spins around and marches to the door, "she proved more loyal to me than my queen,"

And she stares as Marie walks in, head bowed and eyes downcast with Cardinal Richelieu at her side. For long moments her thoughts wander, what has her lady-in-waiting, her friend, the head of her retinue, what has this woman got to with anything. And then Marie glances up at her before bowing her head towards the king.

"Your majesty, I am your humble servant. I could not stay silent on the matter anymore," Marie dips her head lower, "I beg your forgiveness for letting it go on this far,"

"What?" she stares.

"Yes," Louis nods, a strange wildness in his eyes, "yes, you see now? Marie told me everything, her friend Henry in England even sent me the letters he acquired from the Duke. She couldn't send the necklace to your lover because she knew it was the one _I_ had ordered to be made for you."

"My lover?"

"Your majesty," Cardinal Richelieu steps ahead, a thin smile of his face, "it is a delicate matter and as such must be handled with utmost regard."

"But she –" Louis points at her and looks to his hand as if suddenly realizing the necklace is still there.

He throws it against the wall.

"I hate you!" he screams at her.

"Your maj–"

"You have failed me," he sniffles and turns away, "the nobles are right, what use I have of a queen that can't even birth a living heir,"

She flinches and backs away. Aches like she had been struck and it is nothing compared to the horrible sickness churning in her belly. The back of her legs hit the edge of her bed and she sits, clutches at the sheets in a vain attempt to ground herself. Doesn't see the others leave her room. She is light and empty and she cannot understand.

Why would Marie lie like that? They had been friends, she had trusted her. They had spent hours together, shared thoughts and secrets and she had told the woman about meeting the Duke in Spain before she came to France, before she married Louis. She presses a hand to her mouth and feels her eyes burn; her innocent secret betrayed and twisted now to be thrown at her face.

Years of loneliness gather around her, moments that had fallen upon her softly, silently, heaped on her shoulders, clung to her hair and stuck to her eyelashes. For the first time in her life she thinks she isn't prepared for this.

At twenty years old Anne feels too young.

* * *

It glitters.

Blinding, piercing and watering his eyes. Standing at the edge of the clearing he squints against the glare of sunlight upon snow. Stiff fingers curls tighter around the freezing hilt of his sword, he isn't sure if the grasp is firm enough, isn't sure if his fingers are obeying him. Slowly he places his other hand on the hilt too, just in case.

He pushes away from where he has pressed his shoulder to the tree, staggers, winces, reaches the next tree and stops. Bends forward and swallows thickly, closes his eyes and snaps them back open as a raven calls. They flutter down here and there, hop along the upturned pots and scattered bodies and he cannot keep up with them, cannot keep them away and watch the thicket their enemies had emerged from at the same time.

He turns half way around and looks behind.

Marsac has not returned yet.

He leaves the tree holding him up and stumbles with a wild swing at the nearest raven. It lands a short flight away by another body. He knows the name of that Musketeer lying dead by the cold campfire; he knows the names of all these dead Musketeers. His lips move but they form nothing.

They are laughter, teasing, thumps on his back.

He cannot name them.

He knew them, he recognizes them; his heart beats faster for their names don't shape into his voice, they are there but not.

"Marsac," it's a thin breath out of him.

He looks down and deciphers that he is sitting now. There is a tree at his back that he knows not how it got there or when he got to it. He looks up and it is night. He is shivering, muscles rattling enough to fall off his bones. In the grainy light of the stars he can make out the silent blurs of darkness, the dead are still here.

Sharp pain lances his knees as he claws at the tree and pulls himself up.

Marsac did not return.

Neither did the enemy.

He cannot decide which disappoints him more.

He shudders and wraps his stiff arms around himself; the cold is a dull knife on his joints. It bites into his flesh and scrapes against his skin. Left behind by the dead and the living he doesn't know if he can take anymore of this.

At twenty-one Aramis feels too old.

* * *

_Snow clouds covered the Sky_

_Snowflakes covered the Earth_

_Some things froze forever, others awaited thaw. _

* * *

**Thank you everyone who read, review, favorite and follow this story. Thank you guest reviewers Jmp and Guest for your kind words. **

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: My research says that the 'proper' saddle for riding sidesaddle was invented in 1800s and before that speed was impossible in that position, but let's just imagine for this story that either there was at least one developed then for this story or a gallop was possible; after all, research says Anne was a skilled equestrian :) **

* * *

This is not what she had in mind.

But it is not unexpected; she knew this is how it would be no matter how much she wants it to be more. At least she has the reins in her own hands as she sat sideways atop the horse, the high parasol held by one of the staff bobbed along to protect her from the few times the sun peaked out from beyond the summer clouds.

She looks to the king in the distance and tries not to flinch as he practices his hunting skills on the birds let loose one at a time from the cage off to his side. She cannot see his eyes from this far away but she knows there'll be happiness there and wonders if it will ever be her turn to fly free. A pistol shot cracks the air and a soft patter of claps reaches out to her. The king basks in the attention and her gaze shifts to the blue cloaks dotting the king's sentry, marking the presence of his majesty's fledgling regiment of personal guards. She likes Treville, he may just be honest in his desire to protect the king but she wonders if this new regiment means more scrutiny, more eyes watching her with wary caution or distaste or worst pity.

The people are still waiting for an heir.

The losses have embittered them towards her.

She turns away. The lulling walk of her horse irks her; the parasol follows her around for another circle of one of the lawns. She looks straight ahead towards the trees, feels the cooler breeze as the sun once again dips behind the clouds. She taps her foot to the side of the horse and feels it trot, the parasol lags behind, she shifts while blessing the soft material of her gown and the slight change in weight signals her horse into a canter, a press of her foot and they are off.

Away from the ladies, the king, the palace, her life.

There is nothing but the wind and the beat of hooves; her loosened hair and the rush in her chest.

She's grinning, she's laughing.

And then there is another horse on the trail, a rider behind her. She glances at him as he draws alongside her and feels her eyes widen when the man doesn't reach over to take the reins. It dawns on her that he has understood that this is not a horse out of control; he can tell that she is very much in charge of what is going on, is aware of this unwomanly behaviour by none other than the queen.

But he never asks her to slow down, doesn't say a word until she eases her horse into a trot then a walk. A sigh escapes her and she blinks against the drizzle she hadn't noticed the start of. She turns her horse around and so does the man at her side. A blue cloak hangs on his shoulder, a blue sash at his waist. She glances at him and he takes off his hat with a bow of his head.

"Your majesty,"

"Musketeer," she nods, "are there others following?"

"I'm not sure,"

She nods again, feels the heat rising up her neck and into her face; berates herself silently for giving in to the unbecoming behaviour that has led her here.

"If I may your majesty," the man at her side has his hat still pressed over his heart and gaze lowered slightly, "I have never seen a woman with such mastery over a horse,"

Her eyes narrow, she suddenly doesn't want Louis finding out about this. But how could he not? He was right there. And this man is from his personal guard. How can she explain away a sudden jaunt in the woods?

"You would do well to remember your place Musketeer,"

"Of course your majesty, I apologize."

"Musketeers are supposed to protect his majesty," she says.

"You will never know a more loyal and law-abiding body of men," he dips his head again.

His damp dark hair have taken to sticking to his face and she thinks there may be a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"Then why are you the one to follow me out?"

Has Louis sent him? Was he scared for her?

Something must have shown her voice for the Musketeer didn't reply immediately.

"His majesty is upset," he says.

And there is something beneath those words that she cannot identify. She frowns even as they come to the end of the thicket and glances at her companion who has slowed. The Musketeer reaches out, a gloved hand asking for the reins she still holds.

"May I your majesty?"

She lets him take them. Sits straighter, face held high and blank even as the parasol is back over her head. It moves along with her despite the fact that she is soaked in the summer shower, despite the fact that the cloth of the parasol does nothing to keep the water at bay, but to each his duty, she knows. They stop before the small retinue at the edge of the courtyard. Treville is there, so is the Cardinal but not her husband she notes as she dismounts.

"What is the meaning of this? Who is responsible for this horse," the Cardinal takes the reins of her horse and turns to one of the staff, "who trained this animal?"

"It is not the trainer's fault," she says, "nor the horse's,"

The Cardinal turns to her and the horse backtracks, its hooves coming down hard in the mud just as the Musketeer steps nearer, that splatters lands on his coat instead of her gown. He strokes the horse's neck and looks to the Cardinal.

"The horse was stung your eminence," he says, "by a bee most likely,"

The Cardinal's face twists into a scowl but he lets one of the stable-hands take the reins.

"His majesty didn't like the interruption," Richelieu tells her, "I would suggest that you..." he sweeps out an arm towards the palace.

Anne nods and glides up the stairs.

She keeps the Musketeer's excuse as the truth.

* * *

This is not what he had planned.

But he should have known; when has his good deed ever gone unpunished? Shaking his head he looks down the corridor and catches the gray end rounding the next corner. It has started out innocently enough, a few scraps here, some milk there and soon the monstrosity had started identifying him. It was all going well until it had limped up to him bleeding from more places than one. Stitches, bandages and a fortnight of sleeping in his room at the garrison later it had returned to health with a penchant to following him around.

And it had done so with no sense of decorum right into the palace.

His boots squeaking against the clean marble floors he hurries along, not sure if he is afraid of his Captain's wrath and the possibility of losing his commission or the safety of the intrepid creature that seems intent upon inspecting the palace. A thought of booted kicks to a small mangy body has him picking his pace. His heart drops to his toes as the cat slips into one of the rooms.

He curses whoever it was that had left the door ajar.

Looking around one more time to ensure they are alone he goes into the room, squinting slightly in the dim light. The drawn curtains glow blue and there is a rustle somewhere. He listens carefully and there is the click of the one claw that the cat can't sheath for the missing flesh on its paw. He bends down whistling softly.

"Come out, come out, mon petit monstre," he sees it sidle along the far wall and marches over, "you my friend need a lecture from Athos,"

The cat flattens against the floor and darts out of his reach, slipping under the dresser.

He crouches, weapons clinking even as he adjusts his rapier and goes down further on his hands and knees, clicks his tongue to coax the feline out at the sound. There is only silence at his endeavors. He lowers still until the side of his face is brushing against the cool floor.

"Mi querido pequeño horror, ¿por qué insistes en que te maten?"

A single glowing eye stares back at him.

He presses his cheek to the floor and reaches out, the cat scoots back and sniffs at his fingers. This might just be the last living day of the arrogant beast; if not because of the disgusted denizens of the palace then by his hands, he will wring its neck, after he manages to get a hold of it that is. He puffs out a breath and pulls his arm out.

"I'm trying to save your life," he speaks to the darkness under the dresser, "how many of those do you suppose you have left to spare?"

There is a very pointed, very feminine cough behind him.

Resisting the urge to thump his forehead on the floor he rises and bows before the queen.

"Your majesty,"

"Musketeer," she nods.

There is the same chill there that had been in her words reminding him of his place weeks ago.

"Is the threat imminent against all the palace furniture or just this one?" she asks.

He opens his mouth to reply but looks down at the sudden press against his leg, there is his little horror curling about his shin, its thin tail held high. He picks it up and remembers the queen a second too late. He glances up at the royal staring at the animal in his hands, except there is no revulsion in the queen's eyes. There just might be a twitch up at the corners of her lips. He scratches the cat's head and smiles down at the one eyed creature, there are pieces missing from both its ears, a good chunk gone from its front paw and what thin gray fur there is, it's covered in the grime of Paris streets.

He loves the little fiend.

It gives a loud purr and hops down from his arm, padding over to the queen.

"Your majesty I –"

He can only stare as the queen bends to stroke the thin spine of the animal.

"Did you give it a name Monsieur?"

He nods only because he is too shocked by this turn of events.

"What is it?"

And he refrains from drawing a hand down his face.

"Monster," he says.

It is definitely a smile on her face.

The sound of the door opening has him looking away from the amusement on the queen's face and he holds back a wince at the thunderous look on his Captain's face. Treville stops halfway to words as he realizes the queen's presence and bows. But the glare turns back where it had been intended.

"Why are you not at your post?" he demands before his face drains of colour at the sight of Monster rubbing itself against the queen's gown.

"It was my foolishness Captain," the queen says, "I thought I saw a rat and screamed. Your Musketeer was passing by and ran in to help,"

"A rat?" Treville tries not to sound incredulous.

"Yes and this noble beast chased it away I think," she smiles down at the feline, "and as a reward for its service I'll let the staff know it's allowed to roam these halls as often as it wishes,"

He can only bow low as she walks by him and grins wide at the baffled look Treville pins him with. Aramis shrugs and plucking Monster from the floor he exits the room.

After all, he would never call the queen a liar.

* * *

_Along lonely flights_

_Upon winding paths _

* * *

She has heard the rumours.

While his majesty has been visiting his favored half-brother Feron there had been an attack on the royal procession, the king was safe but the story going around said it was only because the wounds intended for his majesty had been taken upon by a Musketeer. She watches her husband stroll along among the flowers with Feron's cousin Lady Henriette at his side; and wonders if Louis ever finds himself thankful.

Turning away from the window she walks back to her chair.

The king will never understand how important he is for her. Her position, her authority, her place in the world hinges upon this man. If Louis dies without an heir – she closes her eyes to keep those thoughts away.

She only opens them when Treville's presence is announced. Sitting down in one of the chairs she greets the Captain with a smile.

"I called you here to extend my gratitude," she says, "You have brought my husband home safe amidst an attack upon his life, and for that I thank you,"

"It is an honour your majesty. And our duty," says Treville.

"Not all would hold it so dear Captain,"

"My Musketeers always will," he says.

"How do they fare," she asks, "I've heard there were wounded,"

"Some are worse off than others, Aramis is –" Treville sighs and shakes his head, "I made a mistake but my men were able to rally."

She can read the flash of guilt and worry in the sharp blue eyes before it's gone. He is an honest man she can tell and she wonders how long could he survive under the king's ever changing whim.

"Aramis? Is that the Musketeer who was wounded by the shot intended for the king?"

Treville smiles, there is pride under the humour.

"Nothing as dramatic your majesty," he says, "he simply did his duty and protected his king. If it means stepping in front of a blade to do so, then that is what he did,"

She isn't sure if she could do that for anyone, not for husband, not likely for her siblings.

"I would have you thank him for me Treville," she says, "I am grateful for my husband's safety,"

Treville simply bows and takes his leave.

The king's laughter floats in from the open window and she can imagine the pleased expression on Lady Henreitte's face. His majesty had taken a liking to her sweet words and thick modesty, the absorbed countenance in the face of even the most bland observations by the king had endeared the lady to his majesty. She has seen the same quality painted upon most of the faces she finds in the palace.

But Anne reminds herself that as long as there are still some men like Treville and Aramis left, all will not be lost.

* * *

He had followed the lead.

Ever since he had found his weight back on his albeit shaky legs he had been trying to find the one responsible for the attack on the king. He had wanted to know the reason behind the wound that had put him in the infirmary with heavy blood loss.

He keeps a firm hold on the man between him and Porthos as they follow Athos to the throne room.

The nobles stare, the Cardinal scowls. He is proud of the fact that they had not beaten up the man they had brought as a witness and meets the Captain's gaze with a clear conscious as he steps ahead and hands the papers to Treville. The poor clerk had been easy enough to scare with words in order for him to tell the truth; he is shaking and sniveling by the time he is introduced before the king.

"Do you recognize anyone here?" the Cardinal enquires at length.

The man nods; glances at the woman at the king's side and looks down.

"The Lady Henriette," he says, "her brother is my employer,"

"And what do you do for him?" Treville asks.

"Manage his finances,"

"What has this got to do with the attempt upon my life?" the king demands.

"Her brother lord Henri paid the men to attack his majesty's procession," says the man, "I have his correspondence there," he nods towards Treville who hands the papers over to the Cardinal.

"But why?" his majesty frowns.

"Most likely to secure his sister's position at the court," Cardinal Richelieu's scowl deepens, "wasn't it convenient that your majesty had to stop at lord Henri's residence. Or it might be that your half-brother asked his cousin to act on his behalf,"

The woman standing at the king's side pales under his majesty's glare. The same glare that is still firmly in place when the royal gaze turns towards the rest of them.

"This man will remain in prison until I have his master," the king points at the clerk, "and I want Henri to be brought before me, send him the summons right now!"

There is a rush to obey the orders and the clerk is taken from their grasp by the Red Guards. Lady Henriette is shedding quiet tears but the king scowls at her and turns away. They bow as his majesty stomps past them, the queen a step behind her husband. He remembers Treville telling him about the queen's gratitude for his part in saving the king's life

"I thought he would be happy to have his attackers punished," he notes.

"At least the queen would be pleased," Athos mummers.

"She would've been getting tired of that woman flaunting her power," Porthos nods.

And suddenly he understands that Lady Henriette had succeeded in securing the king's favor while he had been recovering. He wonders if it's disloyal of him to be averse of his majesty's decision to shower his attention upon another while he hardly glanced towards his wife. After all it was not unknown for the kings to have mistresses and selfishness seemed to be a given for those in power.

But Aramis reminds himself that as long as there are still some royals like their queen, all will not be lost.

* * *

_Caught in the spin they pass each other by_

_Never too near, never too far _

* * *

**TBC**

**Thank you everyone who read, review, favorite and follow this story. Thank you guest reviewers Caroline, Jmp and Visitor for taking the time to share your thoughts. **

**Google translated:**

**"mon petit monster" = "my little monster."**

**"Mi querido pequeño horror, ¿por qué insistes en que te maten?" = "my dear little horror, why do you insist on being killed?"**


	4. Chapter 4

The prison is quiet.

She knows they would have locked down even more severely now that she is here, the group of Red Guards and Musketeers surrounding her are a testament to that. But she hopes this momentary increase in strictness is worth it for the few to be granted a new life.

"Your Majesty should not waste sympathy on those undeserving of it," Treville says.

"All men need hope, Captain. Without it, why should they lead a decent life?"

Because hope is the one thing that had brought her this far, amidst the loss of her children and his majesty's disinterest that it had fed, hope is the only thing that she had left to hold onto. She looks to the prisoners brought out to her.

"They look half-dead, poor things."

And suddenly it is there again, this uncertainty that her kindness may not be enough, that this meager act of assistance may be nothing to those who had lost all. How can she help these condemned men when she has no freedom of her own?

"I hope this small gift will help you in your new lives," she hands them the small bag of coins each.

Her eyes watering at the part wonder part starved looks they fix her with.

"Did you see the gratitude on their faces, Captain? Mercy is more effective than any whip or gallows," she says as the prisoners are led away.

"The worst offenders would only consider Your Majesty's gentle nature a weakness," Treville replies, "some men are just born bad,"

Did that mean some men are born good she wonders. Were there people born good and made bad by life's hand and those that are other way round she wants to ask. Where did she fell in that division and where did Louis? She shakes her head and pulls away from that, these dark thoughts held in the deepest dungeons of her mind, she dares not touch upon them.

"Prisoners escaping!" there is a call from inside.

"Protect the Queen!" Treville steps before her, his weapon raised. There are pistol shots, swords clashing and grunts and shouts and Treville's hand on her arm as he guides her through it all. The dying and wounded are around her.

"Get back. Hold the line! Close the door!" Treville commands. "Get the Queen out!"

The prisoners flood the yard armed with rage and desperation and the weapons they had pulled off from the jailers and the ones they had fashioned out of metal scraps. Dust and screams choke her. They are up the stairs and closer to the gates. Treville shoots down the ragged man coming towards her and stepping ahead strikes down the next.

Suddenly there's an arm around her throat and the end of a pistol jabbing through her collar.

"Oi, oi!"

The stink of sweat and vomit overwhelms her.

"Stop or your Queen dies," says the man holding her.

"Hold your fire!"

"Open the gate" demands her captor.

There is silence. She can see the denial on the faces before her. Treville and the Red Guard in charge glare at the escaped prisoner, their men backing their quiet decision. Clutching at the arm around her throat she looks to the Captain but he glances away.

And then he nods.

"Do as he says," Treville orders, "Do it."

"Open the gates," orders the prison guard.

There is a creak of wood and metal and she feels the gust at the back of her legs.

"Vadim!" the men from outside rush to flank them.

They face the soldiers with pistols at the ready. And the pistol pressed to her collar shifts to her face, she can feel the grasp tighten around her neck.

"You see, I told you they'd let me walk out of here," Vadim says.

And there are some hasty words offered in reply from somewhere but all she can pay attention to is the cold metal on her cheek. She cringes as it slides down to her lips.

"Your Majesty, my apologies. I hope that apart from this, you've enjoyed your trip," Vadim presses his lips to the side of her head and she can taste bile on her tongue.

But then she is thrown forward.

"Shoot them! Don't let them escape!"

Shots fire past her, they're coming from everywhere.

"Weapons down!"

But the battle has started and she can't see for the smoke. There are more shots, sounds of boots and metal and the smell of gunpowder and suddenly there is grip coiled around her waist, a solid presence at her side as she goes down. There's a hand at the side of her face, someone hovers over her and the world is muffled; quieted in this abrupt sanctuary amidst the madness of gunpowder, steel and death.

The only sound remaining loud is her own too fast breathing and the thumping of her quickened heartbeat.

"Don't worry, its fine," the voice is close.

She knows this voice; a damaged carriage and the feel of water over her head flashes before her closed eyes.

"Look at me; look at me. It's over," he says and an oddly familiar sense of grounding in a world turned too senseless washes over her. Anne shivers.

She had heard it so often in the past but it had taken her years to recognize this voice.

"I've got you," he says.

She opens her eyes.

"So you have,"

Blue eyes meet brown.

* * *

The people are loud.

He keeps an ear out for trouble as he walks, eyes glancing over to Porthos patrolling the crowd. There's a headache pulsing behind his eyes. He could say that it was worry for d'Artagnan that had kept him awake last night and it wouldn't be a lie, yet that was not entirely the reason why there was an odd restlessness churning under his skin.

He glances to the side at the royal couple and looks away back to the people clapping and cheering.

He is a Musketeer he reminds himself; because ever since the prison break it seems to have become a necessity. He had assumed himself wrong in perceiving a difference in the queen as he had helped her off the prison floor and yet there was something different about the woman when she had summoned them for a reward after. He shakes his head.

Can't understand why he is suddenly thinking of her as a woman.

"Death to the tyrants!" yells a man.

And from the crowd spill out those with the bombs; he shoots down the nearest. Another falls from Porthos' dagger. There are more shots as they take out the attackers.

"Protect the King!"

He stops, pistol raised at the man who had signaled the start of this ambush. But there's a squirming woman held in front of the man who still holds a bomb in his other hand.

"Let her go,"

"Take the shot!" is the order from somewhere behind him, "take it! Shoot him!"

But he can't risk the woman.

Someone shoots next at the man's head and he launches the bomb to where the royals are. It falls short but not too much. Aramis shivers even as he moves, he had hesitated but he can't save one life and condemn others to death for that. He falls by the bomb, trying to snuff the wick even as he curls around it and the fear of a blade inching out of the tree trunk comes unbidden to his mind.

A sense of surrender, of accepting loss for another's win ripples through him and he remembers letting go.

Someone is yelling his name as he sits up suddenly, realizing that the bomb didn't go off, that he is still alive and he looks up at the royals being hurried past him. There she is, looking at him even as Athos ushers her to safety. Aramis lets go a breath he didn't remember holding and the sound of a rushing river ghosts by his ears, he knows. The queen keeps trying to glance back at him until she turns fully around despite Athos' attempts otherwise.

Brown eyes meet blue.

* * *

_The sun blazed too bright and fire splintered the air. Ripples collided in a silent cacophony and everything tipped, rolled and rumbled and trembled and pulled; taut. _

_It was the day Earth tethered the Sky. _

* * *

It's strange.

Through all these years she had noticed that one Musketeer ever since that morning Louis had been upset at her for disrupting his target practice, and yet she had never been aware of the act. It would be hard to miss the guard with a cat asleep on his foot she muses. But it had been other things; overhearing the palace cook thanking the Musketeer for stitching up her husband's leg, the new stable-boy hugging the Musketeer for getting him the job, one of her maids whispering to the other about Musketeer Aramis going to visit this man from the market who didn't understand her rebuffs. She pulls her gaze away from the trees their carriage is passing by and clasps her hands in her lap, little by little she had collected quite a lot of information about Musketeer Aramis it seems.

"I just know Ninon is innocent," Louis says from across her, "can you believe the Cardinal is calling such a beautiful woman a witch?"

"She is not a witch your majesty,"

"Of course she isn't," her husband grins, "she practically glows with the goodness of her heart. Have you noticed her hair? It's so bright it's magical," he chuckles, "don't tell the Cardinal I said that,"

"I won't," she smiles, "I'm just glad you have found a way to grant her mercy in the face of this madness,"

She won't mention her part in suggesting the loop around the rules they will use, not when his majesty puffs out happily at the praise. All she cares about is that the woman would not be killed by this mockery of a trial the Cardinal had set up.

"Do you suppose she will be pleased with me?" Luois asks, "I'm sure she will accept to take a walk with me now," he adds and his smile widens as a dreamy look takes over his face, "oh she will be eager to show her gratitude,"

"I'm sure she will be your majesty," she assures him and looks away.

Finds her mind wander over to a week ago when she had seen Aramis and Porthos walk out after Emile, the man she had been told to be one of the Cardinal's business partners. From the terrace she had seen Porthos' stiff posture had noticed the way Aramis had walked a step behind him, wordlessly supplying his friend a boost up to the saddle. There had been anger in their postures but a few days later the Musketeer had seemed distant when she had observed him closely as they awaited for the family of Louis' sister. He had seemed silent even though they hardly talked while on guard duty. Yet there had been a quietness about him and odd sadness that had unsettled her even as she had stood there to greet the Duke and the Duchess of Savoy.

"Ah! here we are," Louis grins.

She looks at the stone walls of the monastery and hopes that they are not too late. Stepping out of the carriage she makes her way to the trial room as her husband leaves for a reprieve in the Cardinal's chambers. If the shock on the faces of the judges is to go by they hadn't dreamed of her interference this way. The faces of the men at the high table are scornful even as they stand in respect.

"Your majesty," the Cardinal stares.

She offers a polite smile as she comes to stand by the accused.

"It is the King's wish that unless the Comtesse de Larroque confesses her crimes freely and without torture, she be spared the death sentence," she says.

Well aware of the murmur that her declaration starts. She quietly takes Ninon's hand in hers and squeezes tightly, offering strength to the shaken woman.

"I have never consorted with the Devil until this moment," Ninon says to the Cardinal, "I am looking at him."

She's proud of this woman and turns to her with a smile and feels her heart jump to her throat. The Cardinal is saying something but all she can think of is that gift, _her _gift to _him, _around this woman's neck. He gave it to Ninon; she swallows thickly and blinks against the sudden prickle in her eyes.

The sound of shattering glass makes her look back at the judges and her eyes widen in realization that the Cardinal is screaming. There is pain and danger around and her eyes seek Aramis instinctually. He is already by the writhing Cardinal and hefting the older man onto his shoulder. She trails behind the group as it makes way to the Cardinal's chambers and stays back as her husband cries and clings to the man while Aramis calls for the emetic. He isn't looking at her, he is focused upon the man who is screaming and clawing at his own skin, she isn't looking to Louis who is sobbing at Treville's side.

Anne leaves the room.

Bright sunlight accosts her and she breathes in deep, lets it out slowly. Ninon is beautiful, there is no question about that and she is intelligent, spirited, unmarried and rich; any man would be lucky to make her his wife and Aramis – she steps closer to the open archway on the upper corridor and glares at the sunlit yard below.

Aramis is Aramis; he can charm any woman, cherish her and love her.

Her lungs freeze. An ache curls in the hollow at the base of her throat like it hadn't ever for the women at his majesty's arm. The bits and pieces she had conjured and collected in her moments of loneliness, those odds and ends she had yearned for in those instances she felt vulnerable, she can't say when they had slid into an entirety that is Aramis.

She presses a hand to her chest and moves back from archway.

Because he is not hers, he cannot be.

Her eyes sting.

She needs to talk to him, she needs to know if he and Ninon –she shakes her head and walks to the stairs. She will wait for him and she will tell him that she knows, and that she is happy for him because she loves h–

Her hand flies to her mouth.

Good heavens.

* * *

It's odd.

He shouldn't have felt that warm glow of pride in his chest as the queen had stepped into the trial room and yet he remembers smiling. But he had always been aware of the queen while on duty, had been even before the first time they had talked when he had followed her into the thicket. That's why he had been the first to reach his horse that day, because even while he hadn't been watching he had somehow been attentive. It had only grown from there; the way she had always held herself with dignity despite the hostility for the 'Spanish queen' that even he could see in the courtiers, how she read every delicate situation and smoothed over the ruffled feathers that the king had been blind to, her paying off the debt for one of her chamber maid's so that she would not be wed off to the creditor, the orphans she had played with whenever they came to visit the palace at her insistence, how she always tempered the king's decisions with a touch of mercy.

Shaking his head he brings back his wandering thoughts and heaves the Cardinal back onto the bed. The man had been throwing up for long minutes and he is certain that there's nothing left to bring up. There will be someone along with an antidote but he knows the man is out of immediate danger with the poison out of his stomach.

"Are you sure he will be fine?" the king asks.

"I don't know what the poison was or how much had he digested it, your majesty. But I've done what was needed," he pulls the covers over the shivering man on the bed, "he should be able to recover,"

"Good, good," the king wipes a sleeve over his eyes, "now find the one responsible,"

He bows and takes his leave. Walking down the stairs he wonders how they will find the person who had poisoned Richelieu given that there were so many that wanted to. The sun is high by now and the walls of the monastery have packed its heat in the yard that he crosses, wringing his gloves as he goes.

"The Cardinal; will he live?"

He turns around at her words and slows, curbs the desire to rush up to the queen. It works effectively enough for her to notice his silence.

"He has been no friend to the musketeers," she adds.

"We are all servants of France, your majesty,"

She looks away but when her eyes come back to his there is hurt there.

"I did not expect to find my gift to you around the Comtesse's neck."

That he did not see coming.

"Is Ninon your lover?" the smile looks forced, "she is beautiful."

"She is a good woman facing a hideous death," he says and weighs if he should or should not let the implications she made stand, he did enjoy his notorious reputation.

"I – I only wanted to comfort her," the truth comes out and he can't meet her eyes after showing his weakness.

"Forgive me," the tiny simle on her face is real, "your compassion does you credit."

And as she walks past him he only stares. He wonders when he had stopped bowing before her as one should for a queen, when had he grown so familiar with her presence. Drawing a hand through his hair he chuckles quietly because for all his libertine image he hadn't been with a woman like that since Adele left Paris. Actually he reminds himself that he hadn't looked at another woman that way ever since that prison break, because he had fallen in love with the qu–

Oh hell.

* * *

_Because some things right before the face take the longest to be recognized_

_And sometimes the most obvious things are the hardest to put into words,_

* * *

**TBC**

**Thank you everyone who read, review, favorite and follow this story. Thank you guest reviewer Jmp for taking the time to share your thoughts. **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you everyone who read, review, favorite and follow this story. Thank you guest reviewer Jmp for taking the time to share your thoughts. **

**The last chapter...**

* * *

She is nervous.

Ordering her ladies-in-waiting away she waits until the door closes after them. Purses her lips as her grasp tightens onto the bedspread under her hands and she feels her jaw twitch. Easing her clenched teeth she gives in to the urge and stands. Walks from her bed to the door and back again, over and over and over. Silently cursing foolish men and their foolish pride and their foolish, utterly foolish desire to prove themselves better from each other.

She grabs the bedpost and leans against it. Ever since his majesty had told her of this competition between the Red Guards and the Musketeers she hadn't been able to sleep properly. Food wouldn't settle in her stomach and the need to move, to talk, to speak her mind had been insistent. But Louis hadn't even allowed her to come to the event, had not seen it fit for her delicate constitution given that there will be bloodshed and possibly death.

She shudders.

What if _he_ was chosen as the Musketeer's champion?

But Captain Treville wouldn't just accept that without proof, no, but then _he_ would try to prove himself and if he did?

There had been word among the staff that the Red Guards had chosen a former murderer to represent them, the man was said to be built like a mountain with the viciousness to match. What if _he_ faced off against him? Her heart pounds against her chest.

Turning away she faces the door and calms herself.

How can she think this way?

For a soldier? A Musketeer? One of the men specifically sworn to protect the king?

The door opens suddenly and one of her ladies informs her that his majesty has returned. She moves to meet her husband with the haste she had never felt before. His bright grin when she finds him offers her no ease.

"Your majesty, you are pleased," she observes.

"I am," he beams, "it was wonderful. The deceit, the rage, the thirst for blood. It was all delightfully thrilling."

"Did someone die?" she is proud that her voice doesn't shake.

"Yes," his eyes are alight with excitement, "oh it was a very dramatic affair. A magnificent fight led to a glorious end. And to the victor went the honour."

"Indeed," she murmurs.

Forces herself to not sway where she stands.

"Yes, I commissioned a new Musketeer today," his majesty says, "d'Artagnan defeated the Cardinal's chosen man,"

The relief melts her joints and she dares not let it show on her face.

"I think we should have events like this often," Louis says and turns to the man at his side, "what do you say Cardinal? Are your men up to another challenge?"

She leaves them to it and wanders back to her room. Refuses to name the fear she had felt in the day past, because it is not right, it is not possible. She is a queen and he is nothing more than her husband's loyal soldier. She will no longer entertain such a foolish notion that she cannot even begin to comprehend.

Anne frowns.

She is a queen.

* * *

He is worried.

Fingers gently probing the joint he keeps his attention on the task at hand and grabs the roll of bandages. The Captain is only half-conscious, partly from the pain and partly from the tincture he had given the man to ease it. It takes all of his concentration to wrap up Treville's formerly dislocated shoulder and fix him a support for the arm. By the time he is done the Captain is snoring lightly.

Easing the man into a better position for rest he stands back and rubs his fingers over his forehead, because it's still there, the anxiousness he cannot shake after last night's realization. Putting a cup of water by the bedside table and covering it with a piece of clean cloth, he moves on ahead to gather his things. Plucking his hat from atop the chair by the door he leaves the Captain in his room and closes the door behind him.

From the balcony he can see his friends sitting at the table, dinner well underway even as Serge loads the table with more food. Men were coming over to congratulate d'Artagnan for the commission he had won earlier in the evening.

His stomach clenches, asks for food even as it warns against it.

The coins in the inner pocket of his coat are heavy, reminding him of the reality that he had refused to accept. Last night with Madame Marchand he had been so sure, he had told himself that it was nothing but a lack of understanding, a flaw in communication if you will. But even alone in the dark of the night, even now he cannot deny that for the first time in a long time he hadn't enjoyed the company of a beautiful woman; hadn't found the charm in himself to make his libertine reputation proud.

He had been lucky Madame Marchand easily found pleasure in simple things, she had pinned the gold broach to his coat and they had danced the night away. Amidst music and light and a flock of small yapping dogs trying to trip him, he had found that there was no escaping it.

But a queen? The queen? Their queen?

He sighs.

Drawing a hand through his hair he settles the hat on his head. Moving out of the shadows he heads down the stairs and into the yard, hopes that his smile doesn't betray the churning in his gut.

"How is he?" Athos asks.

"Sleeping," he takes his place by Porthos' side, "it'll take some days for him to get back to using that arm."

Porthos fills a plate with food and sets it before him. He nods his thanks and picks at the chunk of bread; what was he thinking? When had he even began thinking this way? The queen? He shakes his head. Looks up to find Athos studying him, the slight tilt of his head telling him that his friend knew he was worried and a raised eyebrow asks him for the reason behind it.

Aramis smiles back.

He is a musketeer.

* * *

_The Sky remained distant._

_The Earth stood firm._

_No matter what they longed for, it could not be. _

* * *

She had spent the day with him.

The horror of seeing Caroline dead and the fear for her own life had melted away in the warmth of this man at her back. With Aramis it had been an adventure through the woods; she had even cooked, truly she had burned to the bone those fish he had so skillfully caught but it had been a delight to watch the four men bravely eat what they could and dispose of it when they thought she wasn't looking.

She rolls to her side on the hard bed and her smile fades. She remembers Sister Helene lying dead in Aramis' grasp, can't forget his shaking hands and bowed head, she remembers his tears. She rolls onto her back again and frowns at the thumping from outside the monastery walls that just would not let up.

Sitting up she moves to the edge of the bed. Through the door she sees him sitting on a bench, head bent and clutched in his hands.

"What are they building?" she asks.

He looks to her and draws a hand through his hair

"Battering ram perhaps, or a ladder,"

He lets his head hang between his shoulders again. Without his coat, hat and the weapons bristling around him he seems exposed. Her heart clenches. She moves off the bed and leaning against the doorpost studies his profile. He had told her of his love and his loss and something in her wants him to know that she understands, watching him sit there with a musket in his lap and a tiredness in shoulders she wants him to know that he is not alone.

"A few years after I married, I too fell pregnant," she finds herself speaking before she can check herself and he looks to her suddenly, surprise and heartache in his eyes.

It is that which encourages her to go on.

"It was perfect. I could feel my child inside me, moving and kicking. I had his whole life planned out, what he would do and be like," her smile falters, "and then I lost the baby. Six years, and I've never forgotten that child, not for a single day."

He winces and looks away but she is closer to him now.

"I am certain that Sister Helene never forgot you or your baby," she says.

He stares ahead.

"All these years, I believed Isabelle was the only woman who could make me happy. But she was right. It was a lie," he is defeated.

"You're grieving," she clutches his sleeve.

He shakes his head and doesn't look at her.

"She knew me better than I know myself. She was right to stay away from me," he says.

She crouches before him and finds herself finally looking fully at the man behind the Musketeer. The person she had glimpsed often and with whom she had fallen in love with.

"No, Aramis. You are brave and honourable and kind. Any woman would be fortunate to be loved by you," she says.

He watches her, pain and disbelief and yearning fills his gaze but he holds back. He is on the edge she can tell but wary, patient. For all his recklessness it is that calm of a sharpshooter she finds at his core, poised and ready but waiting.

This is her chance to pull away.

Anne does not.

* * *

He had spent the night with her.

The pain of Isabelle's death and the sound of their enemy at the door had muted, for a time there had been peace, safety, belonging. He wonders if that is what love means. Suppressing a shudder so as not to disturb the woman at his side he stares at the ceiling, memory bringing the smell of grapes and honey back to him. Reminds him of his father's beatings and the grand halls he had lived in, of opulence and learning and planning and hoping.

A light touch to his face and he looks down to the side.

There are tears on Anne's fingertips; he didn't know he had shed them.

"She believed that a part of me was glad that the baby died," he whispers, "She believed I could never want a family,"

"Did you want one?"

"Yes," it's hushed and salty and clinging to the back of his throat.

She curls closer to him and he tightens his arm around her.

"I lost four babies, I don't know what is wrong with me," she says close to his ear.

He presses his lips to her forehead.

"Nothing," he tells her, "there is nothing wrong with you,"

"Everyone seems to believe otherwise,"

"They're wrong," he tips up her face and looks into her eyes, "you are perfect the way you are,"

She smiles at him and it's the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

"Did you look for her," there's an odd longing in her gaze, "did you search for Sister Helene when her father took her away,"

"For months," he swallows the unbidden sense of betrayal that clogs his throat, "She asked him not to tell me where she'd gone. I –," he clears his throat, "I didn't know that until today,"

And hadn't she done the smartest thing he asks himself. Because what had he ever brought with him but death; death for the baby and then death for her.

"She was right to leave," he says, "she was safe without me near,"

A slim hand presses to the side of his face and turns his gaze away from the ceiling.

"Her death is not your fault Aramis," Anne tells him, "and you cannot be responsible for the decisions she never let you be a part of. Perhaps she didn't know you as well as you believed."

Though softly spoken her words are insistent and her gaze though gentle is wrapped around the firmness he admires. There's a fierceness about her that he had seen around the edges of all she does and he loves that about her.

This is his chance to deny what he feels.

Aramis does not.

* * *

_And the Sky broke apart at the sight of shattered Earth, showered it with kisses to wipe away its grief._

_The Earth gave up its armour, let that crust soften, dissolve and be one with the Sky. Let the Sky seep through all its layers and reach the core, baring its most guarded spots. _

* * *

It is raining in Paris.

After the sunny morning she was not expecting the grumbling clouds that had darkened the evening. The palace staff is in a flurry since the announcement of a possible heir on the way. After years and years of silence everyone seems to think that this time would be different; that this time there will most definitely be a healthy, happy Dauphin for France to call her own.

Standing by one of the arches in the corridor she rests her hand on her stomach, feels the same surety in her bones that had gripped those around her. Never before had she seen such fierce hope in the eyes of the courtiers watching her, such respect in the nobles curtseying and such happy shine in the staff's gaze as they fussed to make her comfortable. The naysayers, the whisperers, the doubters, they had all turned grudgingly to her favor after knowing she was with a child. Love has secured her future.

She smiles.

Louis is happy.

Even the Cardinal has smiled at her and for the first time it had not looked forced.

Her smile falters; the Cardinal had planned to assassinate her because he believed she could not give the country an heir, what if he finds out the truth about this baby. She swallows thickly, her fingers holding tight to her gown over where they rest on her middle. Would he be a danger to her child? Would he try to take her baby's life?

She starts at the crack that splits the air, a rumble follows it and heavier downpour.

She wants to talk to Aramis. He would understand, he had _promised _to keep the child safe, he _will _protect the baby.

And yet she had not told him of the child when she had sent for him that morning, needing him to deliver her letter to Charlotte after the Count Mellondorf had been pardoned. She knew he would be the only one to accomplish the task with the discretion it required, still in their rare encounter alone she had not availed the chance to tell him about the baby. She had wanted him to get to know with the others, wanted his majesty and the court to witness his surprise so that there would be no suspicions.

She sighs, it is a delicate matter, malleable, and she will have to mould it carefully.

"There you are!" Louis hurries over to her, grasps her hands and kisses them both, "I have been looking for you,"

"I didn't know, your majesty,"

"That is alright. I simply wanted to go on a walk with you,"

She inclines her head and takes his arm. As they walk down the corridor she pays half a mind to what the king has to say. The edges of her dress tracing over the moist dust at her feet fascinates her, it leaves thin trails of mud on the tip of the lace that circles the end of her gown.

"...and I was thinking we could create a list of possible governesses," Louis grins at her, "has my excitement shocked you into silence?"

"I am grateful to see you are pleased, your majesty,"

"Well it is the best news isn't it?" Louis waits for no reply, "we will have an heir for the country, I will have a successor to pass on my legacy to and you would have fulfilled your duty as a queen."

She nods.

And once words had hurt her, once she had sought to evade the derisive looks, tried to escape the suspicions and shy away from anything that could add to that. But she cannot anymore.

She will not.

The truth she carries will never leave her and the threat of it splashing all over her life will stay with it.

Anne cannot avoid the puddles anymore, but now she is not afraid of them either.

* * *

The rain is not letting up.

The men had assumed it would just be a shower when the evening sky had darkened, no one paid mind to the light patter until with a rumble the clouds had spilled their burden. And then there had been a dash to empty the table in the yard, to put away the targets set up there and toss the bales of hay back into the stables.

That is where he stands, in the doorway of the stables as the horses tap the ground at any particularly loud thunderclap. Crossing his arms he leans against the doorpost at his side and remembers the thunderclap of his own from the morning. Tries not to feel too bad for not having been told when the queen had summoned him to deliver a letter to Charlotte Mellondorf upon her departure. He understands, he cannot claim to be the father, he cannot be anything more to the child than a loyal servant; and he will be the most devoted one.

He smiles.

That surge of protective affection tastes just as sweet as it had when Isabelle had told him of their wants to be with Anne, wants to watch her grow, to wait on her and grumble just to listen to her explain how it was all his fault. He wants to tease and coax smiles from her sudden tears like he had for Isabelle. But he can't.

He won't ask for it either. He knows why he had been told of the news with the rest. The queen is afraid of suspicion, is scared for her life and their child's. Pushing away from the doorpost he walks out into the muddy yard. Vows to himself that no harm would come to the family he wants but cannot have.

And once such a loss had hurt him, once he had sought that elusive home and family, tried to find a place to belong and gave everything to find his place in the world. But he cannot anymore.

He will not.

The lie he will live now defines him and the threat of it splashing all over his life will stay with it.

Aramis cannot seek out the puddles anymore, but he had never been afraid of them either.

* * *

_For all the wisdom of the Sky_

_Despite all courage of the Earth_

_At any point they meet, there will be mud. _

* * *

**END**


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